


choosing my confessions

by objectlesson



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, Lace Panties, M/M, Religious Guilt, Self-Hatred, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: It’s a simple, base,disgustinglycarnal thing: he likes the way women’s underwear feel against his skin.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 20
Kudos: 282





	choosing my confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Read this at your own risk and please look at the tags carefully. It contains a lot of internalized homophobia and self hatred stuff. Also there are panties but it's not a gender thing and I think the content could be triggering for folks who suffer from dysphoria so just be careful friends. 
> 
> I expanded on a tumblr Drabble and this is what happened! I hope someone likes it, I had a blast writing it, I love these characters very much.

For most of his lifetime, Illya assumes he loves women’s undergarments because he loves women, and they are a tangible symbol of them, a way to touch their world. 

The older he gets, the more this theory frays. It’s like an old blanket now: worn thin to the point of translucency in some places, perforated with holes in others. But still, even as it provides no warmth, it’s comforting in a nostalgic, security based way. Something he clings to out of comfort, motivated by the terror of what it might _mean,_ if such a thing were _not_ true. 

Either aberrancy alone is horrible enough. Together, they’re unforgivable. 

Illya loathes the repeated shame of thinking he’s capable of loving a woman, only to realize whatever feeling he has regarding her _curls up and dies_ the second she’s no longer unattainable or shows any serious interest. Gaby is the last of these failed almost-pursuits, and Illya is not a stupid man. He knows how to spot a patten. 

There is also, of course, the way he feels about other men. The way Napoleon Solo’s oil-slick hair and still slicker smile dig barbed points deep into his gut and tug. The _heat_ Napoleon inspires when he leans in too close, or steals something in such a way it does not trip security, but _Illya_ is meant to notice all the same. The way he lies awake at night, imagining the weight and solidity of Napoleon’s vast body beside him. It is not that he simply cannot love women. It’s that under the polished ice of his exterior, there is a raw, bleeding wound from knowing he is capable of loving _men_. 

He might be able to accept or at least bury this truth in snow, if it were not for the years-long habit of lace and silk and finery he’s indulged because he _thought_ it was about _women,_ which somehow made it tolerable. Even honorable. His remaining grip on the sort of man he ought to be. 

But now that Napoleon Solo is a constant fixture in Illya’s life and loving men, loving a _man,_ is no longer something he can run from, it becomes glaringly obvious how _very_ unrelated to women the habit is.

It’s a simple, base, _disgustingly_ carnal thing: he likes the way women’s underwear feel against his skin. 

The scratch, the smooth, the stomach-twisting taboo of it all. He likes to ball garter belts and underwear up in his hands so the fabric disappears completely in the heat of his palm. He likes to walk through antique stores and boutiques and touch each garment, hold it out and examine the stitching, the weight, the brand. He likes to press his face into taffeta and inhale. He likes to pull stockings over his legs and settle into the absolute disgust of it, how vile it is to see his scars and golden hair under the crush of semi-translucent black fabric. He likes to try to stuff himself into the delicate silk panties, it makes him _hard_ how impossible it is, how vast and awful his body truly feels when he attempts to contain it. He is monstrous. There is no moment when he is _more_ sure of this, and Illya has made a life of drowning willfully in self flagellation. It makes sense, perhaps, that this particular act would get him off harder than anything else ever could. 

He _hates_ it though. Not only being a homosexual, but the sort of homosexual who _wears women’s clothes_ in private. Like something from the mind of a hysterical, panicked morality preacher. He’s made a vow to kill anyone who finds out, and luckily, he’s never had to test the strength of this vow. 

Of course it would be Napoleon Solo who ruins everything. 

He was _supposed_ to be at the airport, catching a flight to Venezuela to track a THRUSH agent carrying government secrets tucked into a hollowed out bible. Illya thought he had several _days_ alone in their shared hotel room, _days_ to dig out his most shameful secret belongings and drag them over his skin while he thinks of Napoleon prying his fingers into an absence where there were once holy pages. How pitiful and revolting Napoleon might find him if he were to see him like this. How perfectly humiliating it would be. 

Illya’s neck deep and half blind with such a fantasy when Napoleon barges right in, coat folded over his arm, hair wet from the incessant San Francisco rain. He _was_ saying something but he’s stunned silent once his gaze falls onto Illya, who is bleary-eyed, one hand shoved down the front of some high waisted pale-pink silk and lace underwear, the other clutched around the barrel of the pistol he keeps under his pillow. 

Napoleon’s hands fly up in surrender; he drops his jacket to the carpet in a dark billow.

Illya stares, heart racing. Napoleon is flushed and looks truly and authentically _bewildered_ which happens so infrequently it frightens Illya out of the hazy red he was thrust deep into. He’s failed at killing Napoleon every time he’s been expected to. This time is no different. “Leave,” he forces out instead, throwing the gun onto the floor, hands shaking too much to be trusted touching it. “Leave now.” 

Napoleon does, spins on his heel and blusters out the door, Illya doubled over and gasping on the side of the bed, thinking he might be sick, he might suffocate, the shame might actually come alive and tear him to pieces here, drink the blood, swallow the meat and the stained silk whole until there is nothing but the memory of sin.

He’s busy trying to catch his breath when Napoleon returns, eyes storm-hectic and wild as he slams the door shut behind him, bolting it before striding to the bed, collapsing on his knees in front of Illya in a motion that looks like a huge, terrible exhale. “I know, I _know,_ I know you might shoot me for this, but I had to. I’d have _hated_ myself for the rest of my life if I didn’t try, if I tried to pretend this didn’t happen,” he says, spreading his palms broad and burning on Illya’s thighs, parting them, thumbing up the insides. 

Illya is still half-hard, and the underwear have shifted to the side so his cock is clearly visible, flexing against his thigh in spite of himself, in spite of all _this._ “Don’t—” he gasps out, but he doesn't even know what he’s trying to say. _Don't look at me? Don't tell anyone?_ There’s too much, too many confessions and his mind is nothing but terrified static and he _wants_ Napoleon, he wants him always and here he is. On the floor, red mouth open like a wound. 

“Listen,” Napoleon says urgently, pitching forward pressing his face right into the soft pink lace. His breath is hot and reverent and Illya whites out, thinks he must have died, that he turned the gun on himself instead of Napoleon a few moments ago and this is heaven, this is _hell_ , for it cannot be real life. “I know you, and I _know_ there’s no way in _hell_ you know how beautiful this is. You probably hate yourself, you probably think—you probably feel such _shame,”_ he grinds out, rubbing his five-o clock shadow against Illya so everything snags. Illya would have probably kicked him unconscious under any other circumstances, but it doesn't seem fair when he has _never,_ ever seen Napoleon like this. Broken. Weak. Afraid. 

He has _never_ witnessed Napoleon Solo on his knees, Napoleon Solo broken open and bleeding, tears on his lashes, a violent flush spilled out over his cheeks, hands trembling where they climb the hot rage of Illya’s skin. “But need you to _know,_ that I couldn’t see you like this without telling you. How fucking beautiful I think it is. How beautiful I think _you_ are,” he confesses, turning his head to mouth over the hard, insistent line of Illya’s cock. “There’s something between us, and I’m _so tired_ of pretending I don't see it.” 

Illya gasps. He flickers, and then, because he has made a life of drowning willfully in self flagellation, he relents. 

It’s a simple, base, _disgustingly_ carnal thing: Illya falls onto the bed, makes a fist in Napoleon’ rain-wet hair, and lets him tug his cock free from the lace panties and swallow it down. 

In that dark wet heat, he lets the old blanket fall away from an iron grip. He forces his eyes open to see: his own matted down public hair revealed as Napoleon pulls the stretched out, delicate pink fabric inelegantly to the side and rucks it asunder. And then, Napoleon himself. _Beauty_ itself, stretched drool-slick tight and choking on monstrosity. His black hair like the dead of night, the smell of rain, his eyes fluttering beneath dark, drawn lids. His lashes cutting against the pale shape of his cheek, and most stunning of all, the _hollow_ of that cheek. The motion of Illya’s own cock inside of it, a rhythmic pulse as Napoleon sucks on him, deep and sloppy, spit bubbling from his perfect lips. When he pulls off, Illya’s cock bobs in the space between them, tied to his tongue still by a glistening filament of saliva. There’s a core of black ringed in frigid blue when his eyes slide open, crawling reverently from the elastic waist of the panties cutting into Illya’s hip. He groans aloud. “You’re— _God,_ Illya. So perfectly, perfectly lovely. Where did you _get_ these? Did you keep them after a woman left them in your bed? Or did you _buy_ them? For yourself? ” 

Illya’s laugh is a dark reckless thing. He’s sick with arousal, dizzy with overwhelm, and all he can see is the flush spilling across Napoleon’s face like blood. He reaches down and thumbs into the flood of it, hissing as Napoleon leans into the pressure, palms all over his hips, this thighs. He thumbs over the lace, and that single tender motion is what takes to unlock his own throat enough to speak. “I bought them,” he murmurs. “I have—there are more. I always pretend it is a gift, for a wife, a girlfriend…but it’s always for me.” 

Napoleon rubs his cheek against Illya’s cock; the scrape of stubble maddening. He’s smiling but it’s sharp edged, broken, wild and the barbed edge of it makes Illya fist into his wet hair. “ What a tremendous surprise,” Napoleon murmurs. “So fucking gorgeous. Shattered me right where I stood.” 

“It’s not—not any of the things you say it is,” Illya gasps as Napoleon tries his hardest to fit him back into the cage of lace, palming over the spit-wet fabric, making a fist of it all. “Not beautiful, or lovely. I like it because it’s ugly. They are _lovely,_ but I am not.” 

Napoleon sucks him through the panties, the muted throb of something formerly so nervy making Illya squirm, hungry for more. “You _are,”_ he promises, soaking silk in spit, lips a deeper, more lewd version of the same color. Illya cries out, thrusting against heat, against the promise of slickness. “And honestly I am _sick_ and _exhausted_ from wanting you for so many months, IIlya, so I won't hear otherwise. You’re perfect to me, just like this, and that is that. I won’t let your stupid Russian heart try to strong-arm that away from me.” 

And it seems impossible, but time does not fracture, the hotel does not fall away from them in gales of ash, or wind. There is no dream to wake from, just this. Napoleon on his knees beside the bed, his jacket in a crumpled ruin by the door like a memory. And his mouth, _his mouth._ Molten hot, wet like the wettest thing, wetter than the rain, wetter then the sea. Illya tugs Napoleon’s hair, holds him steady and fucks into that unbelievable wetness. 

Napoleon does not gag, or choke. He takes it so _easy_ , like he was meant for this, made to be used, to swallow Illya’s sins. He tucks his fingers into the lace hem and tugs, a seam stretching without tearing so he can fit the whole of his hand inside. And there, he just _touches._ Cups the weight of his balls, gently rolls them, presses into the drool-slick crack of his ass and rubs over his furled-tight hole and _oh—_ that is so _easy_ , too. Like Illya was meant for this. Meant to be split, and pushed inside, to be filled to the brim so his insides are burning as he comes into the wettest wet. 

Napoleon groans as he sucks, as he milks Illya with sharp, unrelenting pressure. It’s so consuming IIlya feels untethered. Lost at sea, like he might never come back from floating amid the swell of pleasure and static. He can feel his insides pulsing around Napoleon’s thick fingers, holding him there and that, too, might never end. Feeling pried apart and invaded by this thing he loves, even if he does not want to love it. There’s nothing he can do but love it all the same, for it’s _inside_ of him. “Napoleon,” he murmurs eventually, fingers stiff and electric as he unclenches them from his hair. 

“Yours,” Napoleon says as he pulls off, voice a charred out, hoarse hull of its usual mocking timber. And it is so _strange_ to hear him like that—as wrung out and fundamentally _changed_ as Illya feels. He curiously smoothes his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, tracing the shape of his skull, trying on tenderness since he’s not been sure, up until this moment, he could ever touch a man he wanted _gently._ If he could fuck a man without killing him first, or after, once he came and the thrill gave way to shame. 

And the shame _is_ there, still. Sunk deep in his heart and throbbing just like his body around Napoleon’s knuckles. But is exists _alongside_ this: Napoleon’s soft hair, the line of his jaw, the shell of his ear, his temple where sweat has crusted in a salty patina. Illya touches them all, and is stunned to find he’s able to. That he is afraid, but not running. He palms down with his other hand to feel the lace and silk. “You do not think this is filthy?” 

“Oh, a little filthy in the best and most delightful sense of the word,” Napoleon mumbles, pressing a kiss to the underside of Illya’s softening cock before carefully withdrawing his fingers. It hurts, in the very best and delightful way something can hurt. Illya wants it all the time, the slow dirty burn, the clenching ache. He shuts his eyes and wills away the ensuing emptiness. “But also profound. Dirt can be profound, I think,” he mumbles. He examines his fingers, before sucking them into his mouth, eyes locked on Illya’s. 

It’s gut-wrenching; it twists inside him so deeply he has to shut his eyes, dig his nails into the lace until is snags. _Yes_ he wants to say. _I think dirt can be profound._

And then Napoleon straddles him on the bed, and kisses him with a dirty mouth, and he knows, he knows for certain. 


End file.
